Innocent Fire (27 page)

She could not spend the entire afternoon in bed. That was not going to change what had happened, or rectify anything. And it wasn’t fair to her husband. Miranda got up, slipped on her clothes, and went outside to help with their household chores.

Derek was making some kind of stew. He brightened when he saw her. “You’re feeling better?”

“Yes. I’m sorry for being such a child.” She wanted to look away, but his gaze was so warm and caring that it held hers. A bittersweet stabbing went through her. “Here, I’ll make supper.”

“I want you to rest today,” he said firmly. “How’s your headache?”

“Better,” she said. She actually did have a headache, a dull throbbing in her temples.

He dropped the knife he had been paring with and pulled her into his arms. “You scared me there for a minute,” he said. His breath was warm on her face.

Miranda wanted to bury her face in his chest and forget her awful thoughts. As if sensing her desire, he pushed her head forward until her cheek rested there. He stroked her hair. She felt a tremendous surge of warmth and caring, maybe even love, for this man.

“Have you started bleeding?” he asked.

She held her breath. That hadn’t been fair either, to let
him think she was about to start menstruating, not when he was so upset that she might be pregnant.

“Miranda?”

“Not yet,” she said, wishing that she hadn’t lied.

He tensed, and she wondered if he could sense her deceit. But he didn’t bring it up again.

Derek wouldn’t let her lift a finger the rest of the day, to her chagrin. He made their supper, did laundry, cleaned his weapons, and pulled down dried hides. He looked at her frequently. She wasn’t sure what it meant. There was both concern and tenderness and a fixed brightness in his gaze.

Miranda was surprised that she was so tired, but she was eager to crawl into bed that evening—and worried. She didn’t want tonight to be a repeat of last night, or at least her mind didn’t. But she felt a tingling anticipation too, threads of desire that she knew he could spin into red-hot flames. She tried to quell that wicked side of her nature.

He came in after she was already under the covers, clad in her chemise. “What’s this?” he asked in bemusement, fingering the ribboned edge.

“I’m tired,” she said.

He sat there and gazed at her, looking very much like a disappointed little boy. “I know,” he finally said. “Last night was my fault, I should have known better than to be so insatiable. It was just that…I’d waited for you so long, Miranda.”

His words were thrilling. She didn’t want to be thrilled or excited. Their gazes met. He bent and brushed his mouth over hers. Miranda fought the pulsing of desire. She raised her hands, pushed against his chest. “No,” she said firmly. “I’m also sore.” That was indeed the truth.

He clasped both her hands in his and sighed. “I’m a horny bastard, I guess. I figured you’d be sore, though, you being so damn small.”

She flushed at his explicit reference.

He smiled, stroking her shoulder. “Still so modest. I’ll go get some salve.” He left.

Miranda lay there trying to deny that she wanted his loving. She wondered if her base appetite was some kind of punishment. How could that be? Since she had come to
Texas it had been one horrible thing after another. She didn’t deserve any more anguish, she was sure of it.

Derek returned with a small jar she recognized. Knowing what it was for, she flushed and reached out for it. He didn’t hand it to her. “I’ll do it,” he said.

She gasped and sat upright. “No you won’t.”

“Ssh.” He eased her legs apart, and gently he spread the salve inside her, soothing the raw tissues. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said hoarsely. His fingers stroked, and when she began to arch he withdrew them, his hands shaking.

“Damn,” he said, dropping the jar on the floor and crushing her to him.

He smothered what would have been a protest with a very hot, hard kiss. Her body was like a finally tuned instrument, responding instantly. She wanted him. Desperately. It was wrong—but she didn’t care.

He rained kisses on her face and throat, stroking her breast, then, irritated, ripping the chemise down the front. She moaned as he captured both breasts with his hands, kissing her deeply, passionately. Their teeth grated. She returned his kiss, nipping at his mouth, holding his head, then his face. She thrust her tongue in his mouth, touched his.

“Miranda,” he cried.

“Yes,” she said.

His unspoken question was answered. He had already shed his pants. “Let me know if I hurt you,” he rasped, stroking her moist, warm flesh with his fingers.

There was the slightest soreness as he eased in, controlling his urge to thrust hard and fast. She didn’t care. She wanted him, where he was, filling her up so completely, becoming a part of her. He guided her legs upward, and she clamped them around his waist. They moved together, hard and fast, almost desperate, and reached a stunning climax quickly, as one.

Miranda moaned when he left her, this time from real pain. She was burning.

He held her close, tightly, kissing her temple. She refused to think, tried desperately to block out ugly, guilty
thoughts, and buried her face in his neck. Wanton, she kept thinking, wanton. Soon he was fast asleep, still holding her in his arms.

But sleep eluded Miranda for a long time.

It was a glorious morning, Derek thought exultantly as he lifted his wife astride her horse and handed her the reins. She gave him a small smile. To him, it was like a burst of sunshine. He was completely head over heels in love, he knew it, but it didn’t matter. She was his wife—what he’d been waiting for his whole life.

They started out, Derek on foot beside the horse. It was about six miles to the Apache rancheria, and he enjoyed a brisk walk. He would have liked the short trip even better if he ran—endless energy coursed through his veins. But Miranda’s seat wasn’t very good yet, and he couldn’t see her bouncing to a trot the whole way.

After a mile or so he noticed that she was very quiet. He had a stab of fear. “Are you feeling okay today?”

“Oh yes,” she said quickly.

He looked up at her and moved his hand to her knee. “You’re not frightened of my people, are you?” His voice was quiet.

“Oh no,” she protested sincerely.

“Miranda, I’ve been thinking.”

She looked at him curiously.

“How do you feel about this land out here?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well”—his heart began to pump harder—“the Texas frontier is always moving west and north. It won’t be long
now before there’s a trading post closer than San Antonio. Damn! I’m beating around the bush.” He flashed her a smile. “This is my land. I didn’t think I’d ever be settling down again, but I want to.”

“You want to settle down here?” she said helpfully.

“Yes.” He plunged on enthusiastically. “I’d build us a fine cabin, one we could add on to when we need to. The cattle’s for the taking, you know that. With two men I could round up a herd and start branding. Longhorns are real hardy, you know. Right now it’s mostly a domestic market, but we could drive them to New Orleans, or even St. Louis. We’d live well,” he added, and looked at her closely.

Miranda smiled. “Derek, you’re my husband,” she said softly. “And this land is beautiful. If that’s what you want to do, then I say do it.”

“Are you sure, Miranda? I know how citified you are. I could never live in the city. We’d starve and I’d go crazy.”

She smiled at him, and the soft, tender emotion he saw in her eyes made him swallow, sending his pulse racing. “I think we should start on our ranch right away.”

He laughed and stopped her horse, pulling her out of the saddle, making her cry out in surprise. He kissed her boisterously at first. Then, as his exultation faded, as she stood trembling in his arms, as love swept through him, he kissed her again, gently and tenderly, trying to show her with one kiss how much he felt. It was impossible.

“That is it,” Derek said, almost an hour later.

Miranda stared curiously around her. There were about twenty wickiups just like theirs spread through the sparse glade. A few young children were running and playing together, both boys and girls. Squaws sat in groups, scraping hides, sewing buckskins, sorting gathered vegetables and berries—a scene very much like the one at the Comanche village, only smaller. An infant wailed.

“Are all the men out hunting?” she asked, surprised she felt no fear.

“Nope, they’re over there. Looks like there’s going to be a contest.” Derek grinned, pulling her down. He took her hand.

Beyond the camp she saw a group of men, ranging in age from early twenties to middle-aged. Milling among them were six boys, in their early to mid-teens. Miranda was curious.

As they walked through the camp, a cry in Apache which she couldn’t understand went up, and Miranda knew their presence was being noted. Derek paused and spoke to a heavily pregnant squaw, sitting with two others, all sewing.

“Miranda,” he said, “this is Najilkhise’s wife, Daglnike.”

Miranda smiled. “Hello.”

The woman smiled back, then suddenly began speaking in Spanish, which Miranda understood. “Do you speak Spanish, señora? Welcome to our home. I am happy to share our fire with you.”

“
Muchas gracias
,” she replied. “And yes, I speak the language, but not that well. Well enough to understand you.”

“I didn’t know you spoke Spanish,” Derek said as they moved on.

“There’s a lot about me you don’t know,” she said lightly.

He grinned. “And I’m looking forward to finding all that out.”

“How does she speak Spanish?”

“Many Apache do speak some. In fact, many Apache have some Spanish blood, myself included.”

“You do?” She was dubious, looking at his magnificent but unusual coloring.

He smiled. “My great grandfather married one of his captives, a beautiful Castilian girl.”

“Really?”

“Really. Since the late sixteenth century the Apache had been warring with the Spaniards, and then the Mexicans when Mexico became independent in ’21.”

Miranda was silent. She knew nothing of this history of the new land except what little she had learned in a textbook.

“My brother,” A lean, wiry man of medium height and piercing features stepped forth, speaking in English, and he and Derek embraced with real pleasure.

“This is my wife,” Derek said proudly. “This is my brother.”

Miranda searched the man’s face for a resemblance to her husband, and found it only in the mouth—a sensual, firm curve of lips. Other than that, no two men looked more different. Even in build.

He smiled then, and Miranda saw the resemblance—it was Derek’s smile, incredibly so. “Brother, she is more beautiful than the whole of this land.”

“I think so.” Derek grinned.

Miranda blushed. She was aware of his male interest, and was surprised that Derek was so unperturbed.

“You are just in time—the race is about to begin,” Najilkhise said.

They moved forward to watch. Miranda saw six boys line up, all clad in loincloths and moccasins and head-bands. Their red bodies were wiry and lean, their hair long and loose. A man went from one to the other with a bucket of water and a ladle, giving each boy a mouthful of water. Derek chuckled.

“Each boy is required to finish the race without drinking the water,” he told her in a low voice.

“But that’s impossible.” Miranda gasped.

“Of course it’s possible,” he returned. “This is good training. Sometimes an Apache has to run for hours without water. This is probably a four-mile race.”

The boys took off, running as lightly as deer. Soon they disappeared from view, down a slope. Miranda turned to her husband. “Derek, did you ever run like that?”

He chuckled again. “Of course. My father believed in Apache childrearing ways. And why not? Apache are tougher than any other breed on earth. We spent our summers with the tribe, and sometimes winters, too. I received the same training as any boy, maybe more.”

Miranda was completely enthralled, so he continued. “Pa was an honorary member of the tribe. I’m considered a part of the clan because of my mother. My kin pushed me harder than the other boys to make up for the training I lacked, and, I guess, for my white blood. I’d wake up in the morning and my grandfather would make me run up a
mountain and back down, before breakfast. If my performance was bad, he’d make me repeat it at dusk.”

“How cruel.”

“No, it wasn’t cruel, although maybe hard. It’s made me the man I am today.”

“They’re coming back,” Miranda said.

One boy was far in the lead, running furiously now. When he crossed the finish line, he opened his mouth for inspection, a cheer went up, and he spat the water out triumphantly. The rest of the boys finished, all closely behind, but one had swallowed his water. Miranda could see the misery on his face, and his father’s tight-lipped anger as they spoke together. Derek told her in a soft voice that he had tripped and swallowed the water accidentally. “He has shamed not only himself but his father as well.”

Miranda felt sorry for the boy, and he and his father walked away from the group, the youth hanging his head.

A wrestling match followed, between just two boys, the winner of the race and Derek’s nephew, Najilkhise’s son by his first marriage. Derek explained that there was heavy betting going on.

“What do they bet?” Miranda asked.

“Hides mostly, sometimes horses.”

The two boys appeared evenly matched at first. Neither could get an unshakeable grip on the other. They battled silently for twenty minutes, first one on top, then the other, breaking apart simultaneously, to charge and wrestle again. Both boys were panting, their faces red. She was dismayed that no one called a draw.

Then Derek’s nephew got his opponent in a headlock, one forearm across his neck, and he forced the boy onto his knees. Miranda realized that he was strangling him. “Derek! Somebody should stop them!”

He put his hand on her shoulder. “He can admit defeat, and it will be over. But he does not give up.”

Miranda gasped as the boy’s face turned first red then white, and then his eyes closed and he fainted. The winner released him and a cheer went up. Miranda was appalled.